


player, champagne, showtime

by rakkausjuoma (l0velikeoxygen)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 365 FRESH, Kleptomania, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-05 23:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14629473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l0velikeoxygen/pseuds/rakkausjuoma
Summary: In life and in death, they're a three.





	player, champagne, showtime

**Author's Note:**

> oh hey there
> 
> this was written over a period of 3 days (???) and honestly it's really bad, i dont even know....i was thinking about not uploading it, but idc. its written for somebody i love and i hope you like it my queen ❤
> 
> \- mars x

Girls don't go for guys with bloody noses, but what can Seungcheol really do about the crusted crimson beneath his right nostril and violet bruises brewing beneath both of his eyes? 

Sure, a good solution would be _don't get beat up_ , but it's all part of his daily routine. A day without a punch to the face is like a day without brushing his teeth - it’s standard nowadays, even if there's hardly a time anymore in which his face isn't sore to the touch, and to be honest, he's a bit too comfortable with a fist-fight. 

It's all part of the day job, though. Or the night job. Or the whenever-I-feel-like-it job, which is usually after he's spent a good hour charming a wide-eyed girl in low lighting. Tonight, it's Dahyun who’s caught his eye - at least, that's what she says her name is. Then again, most people aren't compulsive liars like he, admittedly, is. He's had so many names, credit cards and, as it so happens, license plates that it's hard to imagine a world in which people are honest. 

She's nice, though. Out with a friend, Dahyun is “letting her hair down”. Similarly, her guard is falling a similar direction. Leaving your car keys in front of Seungche is a self-professed liar, thief and lady-killer (not literally, come _on_ ) - is like giving a dog a bone. Being pretty doesn't prevent red-nosed men with a gift for sliding keys into their pockets, even if she blinks at him with an innocent gaze and sees him as harmless. Sure, he isn't gonna stab her or try and follow her down an alleyway, but the jagged metal is glistening against the matted table in the strobe lights and, oh God, it feels good to slide into stolen leather seats and just drive. 

Still, he quickly makes up an excuse about some weird emergency that some weird friend - note; that's unbelievable, even to himself - texted him about, dismisses pretty Dahyun with a, “It's been nice talking to you”, and makes his way down the parking lot. 

It's her friend’s, she said, and although it was probably a dumb to discuss what car she drives on the night that it would almost definitely get stolen, there's nothing to say that “Mingyu” wasn't just curious about her _Cadillac Eldorado_.

Either way, it feels good. Shoves the keys in the car, wraps his hands around the wheel, speeds. If he's lucky, he'll be able to empty the tank before a new fight rolls around. If he's really lucky, the bruises will have faded by the time another fuckhead thinks it's time that his face would look really, really could with raccoon rings and a busted lip. 

Seungcheol laughs as he finds himself on the highway, a midnight breeze running its fingers through his hair as he drives downwards - his hands don't sweat beneath his stoney grip, since it's a crisp night. Night air and day air taste different, he reckons. Heat waves don't cloud the oxygen that pools in his lungs as he laughs excitedly, the sun doesn't sting his skin, it's all _so_ , so good!

At least, it was all up until about thirty seconds ago, that is. 

-

Okay, so Jisoo’s not exactly an academic. 

His mom was pissed off that he didn't go to university, his dad was pissed off that he wasn't a doctor - not that he could be a doctor if he didn't go to university, so his dad was - is, still - doubly annoyed. 

Even as a kid, he would hack chunks of Barbie's hair out of her head with blunt scissors - was he destined to be a hairdresser, then? His mom thought he was gay, his dad wished that he would stab the doll’s stomach. The guy would've probably loved it if Jisoo started doing surgery on dead cats - if he was playing with guts, he wouldn't be cutting hair at age twenty in a run-down neighbourhood. 

The salon does late nights, and he fucking hates it. He can't blame shitty haircuts on his fuzzy eyes and delayed thoughts - the lighting is blood red, entirely symbolic, but it doesn't matter. He cuts people's hair in daytime and nighttime, fucks up undercuts on the daily and blinks at people erotically if he's done a bit of a shit job. Still, at least he's playing with blades like his father would want. If that blade is stabbed into the heart of some guy with wandering hands, it's better than nothing, right? Maybe he could dig it out of the cavity, and - do people really have that much blood? 

It makes him feel sick. One minute, he's cutting some overly tattooed guy’s hair, listening to the turned-down radio and attempting to maintain some level of interest in the story the man is telling him about his “crazy girlfriend”. Why doesn't he just break up with her, Jisoo thinks. Maybe the guy needs a good cover, though, because the next minute, his large hand is on Jisoo's thigh and fuck. His stomach flip-flops and he kind of feels like he's going to pass out, throw up or, as it turns out, stab the guy. Out of all the options, he picks murder. Maybe that says something about him, but he at least hopes that he's appreciate of the fact that this “crazy girlfriend” isn't the one stabbing him. If she'd done it, Jisoo wouldn't know for sure that the man would have deserved it - although, Jisoo thinks, some people are always gross. If he hadn't stabbed him, would he have done worse? Would he have -

No, it doesn't bare thinking about. He uses his favourite shirt to mop up the blood, panics about the blade and decides he might as well just stick with it - it's his accomplice now, after all - so shoves it in his back pocket and has done. The peppermint on his tongue tastes funny and the music seems to be out of tune, but murder does that - spoils the atmosphere. What was once nonchalant about the situation is now blazing dangerously, and the crimson lamp seems more prophetic than sensual. 

Fuck it. The blood on his hands seems to blend in with the rest of his tinged-red skin. His shirt, on the other hand, is fucked. He grabs that, too, and quickly ammends the scene of the crime by turning off the radio, the light and locking up quickly. They shouldn't have left him alone with a creep, right? The red in the grout is payback, really.

Shit. _Shit_. 

Jisoo needs to run, right? If he doesn't, they'll catch him and he could really do without a reputation as a murdering barber. Maybe he can do home visit haircuts - get a van, smile a whole bunch, call at people's houses. But he'd need a van - and a nice smile, for that matter. His friend told him that his beam was like the smile of a dying cat, which seemed reasonable at the time but now seems kind of mean. Still, he can't get it out of his head.

He can't get the blood off of his hands, either - metaphorically or physically, that puddle of blood stains him completely. Memories are doused in crimson and his hands are, too. Sticky and unable to be wiped off on his hand-me-down jeans, he considers sticking his thumb out into moving traffic just to see if anybody lacked sense to such an extent that they'd let a stranger with blood-stained hands into the back of their pick-up.

But Jisoo's grateful for one thing, and one thing alone - being beautiful can get you anywhere (provided his hands are in his pockets, of course).

The driver - in a smooth, beautiful car - seems to smile at him like he's a piece of meat, and maybe he is. All men in his life seem to think he's dumb, but really, “Seungcheol” in the sport car is the dumb one, since he's let a guy with real blood on his hands ride shotgun because hey, his parents blessed him with symmetry and bigotry. He doesn't understand at first, but does soon - the man hands him a towel, chuckles, and the blood seems to have seeped into the denim of his jeans. Shit. 

“I, uh -” Jisoo mumbles.

The man shakes his head dismissively, clutches the wheel a bit tighter and says, “Different strokes for different folks, man.”

Well, that's something. At least one man doesn't think he's an airhead - probably because Seungcheol is, too. An airhead with a nice, stolen car - at least, he hopes it's stolen. There would be no other excuse for having bargain bucket Girl’s Generation CDs in his glove box otherwise. 

-

If only Jeonghan was less self-destructive - at least then would his supposed “creative genius” shine through the constant, almost tedious attempts to, more or less, off himself.

More or less seems like an odd way of describing suicide, but it’s really not as straightforward as he’d care for it to be. As much as he wants to die, he doesn’t want his death to be a cliché - and all suicide is cliched nowadays, so his unfitting pretences about wanting to be an individual coincide with, admittedly - in his view - original, painful deaths. He’s not a cliché, okay?

He’s an artist, a bad person, a weirdo, a freak, a guy with a ripped bag around his head as he takes gulping, reassuring breaths. 

Most importantly, though, his self-professed originality is overshadowed by his overwhelming boredom and all-consuming “sadness”. It doesn’t feel quite like “sadness”, but it has to be - nobody feels like taking a dip with a toaster if they’re not sad, right?

Mainly, he feels empty. Isolated from the world, he’s done everything to reconnect with others and even though he’s being tryin so, so hard, it’s all fruitless. He can talk to people, smile like he means it, whatever - he’s still “empty”. He’s not a China doll - he has a beating heart, a churning stomach, lungs shrivelled and blackened by tar - but something about him feels...Hollow. If you cut him - metaphorically speaking - he’d probably deflate like a depressed balloon. His body is an empty container, like a teapot or a tupperware container. Either way, teapot or not, his soul’s long gone. It must have flown away in a gust of wind without him noticing. He wasn’t too attached to it, so it isn’t a shocking loss, but, given the option, it would be nice to have it back. When his soul meets his body, maybe he’ll feel complete - but for that to happen, he has to, in the nicest and most artistic way possible, get rid of the container first. Still, it isn’t all bad.

-

They drive smoothly for more or less ten minutes, the stolen car maintaining a steady speed throughout, and yet he’s been waiting for something on the radio to play that isn’t total garbage, for his lungs to stop rapidly deflating and inflating in painful sequence. His stomach burns, and the man - he doesn't know his name, for God's sake - is rather calm about it all, silent and stoney. 

Jisoo is fucked. He shifts in his seat and takes a long, inquisitive glance at the man driving. To be fair, he's putting too much trust into a quiet kleptomaniac. A thief, and a scarily calm one at that - will the police be coming after him? 

But there's nobody else, really. Nobody who isn't already unhinged could understand the blade in the man's chest, the blood on his hands, everything - 

“I killed somebody,” Jisoo mutters, just within earshot of the man. “I killed somebody, oh my God -”

The man smirks. 

Why isn't he disturbed? Why doesn't he kick him out the car, hurt him, murder him like murdered somebody else? Jisoo deserves it. He wants it. He craves the pain, the concrete against his temples, his own blade in his chest. 

His head throbs. “I could tell,” the man chuckles, his teeth sparkling in the street lights. “I mean, I’m not a saint either - this car isn't mine. Some girl I met in the club...She's gonna have a real fun time gettin’ home, isn't she?”

“I suppose.”

The man is handsome - overconfident, bruised and bashful - and yet Jisoo feels frozen. Stuck in an ice block, his arms shivering and goose-pimpled, there's something terrible brewing. But what else is he meant to do? There's blood everywhere, he's in a stolen car, he wants to be beaten up and hurt and it's so, so terrifying. 

Maybe, in a small way, he kinda likes it.

“I'm Seungcheol,” the man announces. The radio plays sweetly, some summery song from the '80s, and the engine gently hums as they drive down a lonely road. No people, no cars - just the wind in their hair and a growing silence, shattered by the man's abrupt self-introduction. Jisoo would like the serenity if it weren't for the paranoia that ached in his bones. “And you? You can give me a fake name, I don't care - honesty’s not my strong suit, either way.”

“Jisoo,” he says, quietly. He must come across like a demure little lamb - if it weren't for the _blood_ , that is.

Seungcheol tips his head back, takes a big gulp of the sweet breeze and smiles widely. He's sort of friendly-looking, if it weren't for the injuries Jisoo has left unquestioned. Maybe he's just not curious enough.

“You’re not a talker - that's okay, man. But whatever, I’ll talk for you,” Seungcheol states. He has a smooth voice, like a thick, honey-laden tinged by the gravel of a chronic smoker. “Now, I don't know if you know this, but you're red-hot. Smoking. I've got a habit of stealing pretty things.”

Jisoo blushes - is this man just charming, or has Jisoo become delusional? He likes compliments and the thought of being stolen seems, at this moment in time, oh-so-appealing.

Seungcheol's eyes squint slightly in the distance, but return to their normal state quickly as he clearly decides what he was staring at was, in fact, nothing at all. “You killed somebody, huh? Did they deserve it? No offense, man, but you don't look like you've got a bad bone in your body. Don't think you have to explain yourself to me, but maybe it's my conservative view of the world.”

He stares out at the empty roads as Seungcheol continues, “I’m skipping town, y’know. I'm assuming you're tagging along, huh? Sounds cool, I mean - I'm kind of lonely. If you have a phone, throw it out of the car now. Not 'cos the FBI are gonna track us or anything, but 'cos I’m really bad when it comes to not taking things that aren't mine.”

-

Jeonghan has probably gone a little crazy, but it's okay.

For one, he fucked up his face. His eyebrows are bleached and his roots are growing back quite quickly - it's not his fault, but his eyebags are darkening from the lack of sleep. He doesn't care if he's ugly - it's way, way beyond that now - but he decides to die in his favourite shirt because hey, even dead men walking deserve nice things.

Everything's fine. He's hopeful - about the whole death thing, that is. The situation is under wraps - he was, for a time, under wraps too. The bag-on-head thing didn't work. The drowning didn't work. The car better fucking work, because he's sick of saying everything's fine but it's really, really not.

He stumbles down the street, singing softly to himself, and realises how delicate one can be - every step shakes him to his core, his arms are swinging until lactic acid fizzles in muscles, until his stomach cinches and he vomits on the pavement. For a second, he cries, but the salt dries sticky on his cheeks and he stops almost as abruptly as he starts. Still, he's bored of waiting. Now he's walking with purpose.

He screams when he reaches the curb. Laughs his fucking head off, cries his heart out, dances like nobody's watching, sings like nobody's listening. It's isolated, so maybe he's right. Totally alone, he watches and waits for moving traffic to mow him down. But, like everything else, it doesn't work.

It's fine. It's fine, fine, fine. Everything's fine.

And then the car comes - like a ballet dancer in the Bolshoi, he pirouettes into the speeding vehicle, laughing, as if to say finally, as he falls in the path. Closes his eyes, feels the concrete on his back - 

The car stops in its tracks. 

“What the fuck do you think you're doing, you crazy fuck?”

He's laughing so loud it all feels kind of fuzzy. He's not dead, he knows, but this is just funny. He curls up and laughs on the road, fumbles around and giggles. He can't hear them screaming anymore.

Blood trickles from his nose from one punch alone, but it's funny. His lungs burn and his diaphragm spasms as he allows himself to fall into the injuries inflicted upon him - he's never laughed this hard in his life. The concrete slams against the back of his head, his heart thrums disjointedly, he laughs. 

He wants to laugh like this forever - he even bares the brunt of bruising, puts his sense of humour before his face. It's fucked anyway - a few cuts and bruises don't make any difference. He might split in two from the laughter but, in any case, it's worth it.

“You're fucking crazy,” the man, the one who punched him and made him laugh, says. Jeonghan sits up, beams at him, and bears his teeth like an angry stray. But how can he be angry, really? He's having the time of his life.

The other stays silent, but watches intensely. From his shifting gaze, even Jeonghan can tell he's conflicted. Join the fucking club.

Jeonghan pulls himself away, stumbles onto two feet, and screams once more. It's not a word, either. Just an excited noise - maybe he is a stray animal. He shakes from the cold, he screams, he bares his teeth. Feral.

He stumbles around once more, dances - now is good. After he's laughed, it's all good. Everything is fine. Maybe - just maybe - the next suicide will be a bit nicer. He didn't like the idea of dirtying his shirt anyway. This isn't the end, it's a crossroads -

“Hey!” the man shouts. “Crazy fucker, come here!”

Maybe he's not feral after all. He feels almost domesticated in the way he follows orders - after all, those punches completed him. Besides, he loves to feel needed. Wanted, even.

“Oh,” Jeonghan says, turning his head back to face them. He aims a singular finger-gun at them, aims and fires. Blowing smoke from the barrel of his index, he sumptuously yawns, “You called?” Sleepy and sexy; crazy and _fucking out of his mind_.

Somehow, somewhere, Jeonghan ends up in the back of the car with a blanket around his shoulders. None of them talk. The music fills the silence temporarily, but it's just meaningless background noise. 

Seungcheol cocks his head upwards. “Right,” he mutters. For some reason, he's not entirely uncomfortable in the presence of the others - in fact, he kinda enjoys it. An undisturbed drive, city roads fading into gravelly country paths - it's nice. Jeonghan isn't manically laughing, Jisoo no longer shivers. For better or for worse, they are growing to realise that maybe the crime of the car, the murder and - oh. Suicide isn't a crime, not really, and he can't pin anything on Jeonghan because, in truth, he doesn't deserve it. He pities him, if anything. 

Jeonghan thinks that Seungcheol looks like the frowning face he drew on his bedroom mirror in permanent marker. 

“Out of town, yeah?” Seungcheol clarifies. 

Nobody responds, but he knows what they're thinking.

-

They make sense, in a wordless way. Jisoo's quiet and introspective; Seungcheol is beyond adventurous, burdened with enough confidence for all three of them with some left over; Jeonghan is bruised and stitched together awkwardly like a build-a-bear, too obvious and too mysterious at the same time. He doesn't fit in, but without him, they wouldn't be where they are.

Speaking of which, Seungcheol has no clue where they are. 

An isolated gas station, far out of town, with only a gum-chewing, bored-looking cashier and several rusty pumps to declare for itself. The morning is sunny but with a slight chill in the air, nipping Jeonghan's exposed arms as he peels the blanket off of his shoulders. Seungcheol offers Jisoo his jacket, but Jeonghan suffers. He could put the blanket back on but, as though unnecessarily proving a point, he stays cold. That's just - him.

Seungcheol feels like shit about marking Jeonghan's face with violet beneath his eyes and a few scratches from his rings, but there's nothing he can do about it now - other than offer him a band-aid, that is. Which he does, rather kindly, but Jeonghan turns his nose up at it. Seungcheol can't understand why, but Jeonghan does - he knows it hurts to pinch his swollen nose and to prod sharp fingers into the bruises, but he does it anyway. Dragging his hands across his face, both Seungcheol and Jeonghan gaze at Jisoo, confused, who is currently staring at the car with contempt in his eyes. 

Swamped in Seungcheol's jacket, Jisoo looks like a lost child. He's the type of person that people miss, not like Seungcheol - people put up MISSING posters for pretty faces, fretting themselves with their well-beings. None of that matters, though. Jisoo has found what he's looking for, even if he doesn't realise it's right in front of him. Sharp and attentive, Seungcheol says, “Jisoo!” Curtly, not demanding, but the younger responds almost immediately. He's probably on edge - killing does that to people.

“Yes?” Jisoo asks.

Seungcheol smiles. “The car’s out of gas, so we got lucky,” he laughs, kicking the tire desperately. “Should probably fill it up, but I forgot my wallet.”

“You could steal it,” Jeonghan teases. He pokes Seungcheol's arm, swinging his long legs around like he forgot how to use them properly. He seems - disjointed. An abstract concept, stuck between reality and unreality. He's too real to be fake, too bizarre to be real. For a suicidal idealist, he's overly cheery. His mouth smells like peppermint and although Seungcheol says he doesn't care, he does. All he can think about for the next few minutes is the shape of Jeonghan's pretty mouth.

Jisoo shudders. “We shouldn't.”

“Now's not the time to get all moral, Jisoo,” he scolds. The tire might as well be flat - they're not going anywhere, that's for sure. Too tired to work, Seungcheol searches the car for a discarded dollar or two. Better than nothing. “You wanna skip town? Help me look.”

Jeonghan screws his eyes shut, sat cross-legged on the car bonnet like a Hawaiian doll. His hair sways in the wind, his shoulders too. His arms are bone-thin, his legs twiggy. “I'm blind,” he laughs.

Seungcheol doesn't bother. He continues to look, Jisoo's scrambling hands joining him generously. They're thorough, sticking their fingers down the seats and checking the empty coffee cups, but all of a sudden, Jisoo feels really dumb. 

“The trunk,” he says. Seungcheol blinks, says nothing, and opens the back with a firm grasp on the handle. 

_Shit_. What a waste of time, searching - Jeonghan laughs loudly, joining them a few seconds after they started staring blankly at the contents. Shit is right. 

“Money,” Jeonghan laughs. “Money! I feel like I'm in ABBA.”

“What a weird way of saying _we're rich_ ,” Jisoo gasps. Finally, Seungcheol thinks. Some optimism. “Seungcheol-hyung, I think I believe in God again.”

“Huh,” he deadpans. It explains the cross around his neck - he would've stolen it at the next opportunity, the pretty silver drawing his eye, but now, why bother? There's a suitcase full of money - he could buy a whole church if he wanted. He gets a thrill from stealing, but not from hurting people. Especially people he cares about and, if he's completely honestly, Jisoo has kind of grown on him in the past few - hours? He checks his watch - stolen; a glossy, new Rolex - but he swears it's been weeks. Jeonghan is kind of - aging. The boy is, if nothing else, challenging. Seungcheol wonders what his teachers thought.

“Right,” Seungcheol announces. He claps his hands. “Let's fill her up and fucking live.”

“Hm,” Jeonghan says. “Well, only for tonight.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You planning on going anywhere?”

“Anywhere,” Jeonghan breathes, dreamily, “since, you know, we're rich now. Maybe Switzerland, I heard -”

“The world is your oyster,” Seungcheol clarifies. He sticks out an introductory hand. “I'm Seungcheol.”

“Oh. Yoon Jeonghan. I - I don't have friends, hyung,” he mutters, worriedly. “But be mine, okay? And if you turn your back on me, I will kill you both.”

“Well,” Jisoo giggles. “I have a blade and very, very nice thighs. Seungcheol-hyung can drive. You're - you. I don't think I'd like you if you weren't like you are now, expect less suicide-y. Most of all, though, we have money.”

“Yup,” Seungcheol agrees. “Y’know, we can't stand here all day. I'm starving and I really need a piss.”

-

Jeonghan looks good even when he's eating, Seungcheol thinks - Jisoo, too. 

Thing is, Jeonghan is an uncommon sort. He's not like anybody else, really. His eyes are bright red with exhaustion, the skin around the eyeball tender and sore, and his skin is drained of all colour. His eyebrows are bleached like his hair is - a heavy-handed peroxide experiment, perhaps. He's got a nice smile, too. His hair is girlishly long, curtains brushed to the side, but he is, in essence, quite manly. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he laughs and, although he's thin, his body is rather masculine. He smells of cigarettes and alcohol markers, only slightly masked by the warm aroma of maple-soaked pancakes in front of him. His fork digs in again, his eyes shift to Jisoo and Seungcheol feels conflicted. He can't pick favourites.

Jisoo sucks on his fork thoughtfully, quite tired-looking, and stares longingly at the menu. “I don't know,” he says. “Seungcheol-hyung, you decide.”

“Waffles,” he says, dumbly. 

“Waffles it is, then,” Jisoo whispers. 

The food is hot, fresh, good. Seungcheol can't remember when he last ate. For Jisoo, his hunger isn't obvious until he smells food and then he realises he's starving, too. They split the waffles, Jeonghan solely eating a stack of pancakes, and eat in silence because really, there's nothing left to say. Sated, Jeonghan finishes first and begins to hum softly.

“I want to be a baby again,” Jeonghan simmers. “Ah, wouldn't that be nice? Wouldn't it be nice to just start over?”

“Hm,” Jisoo considers. “I don't like my parents.”

“My mom killed herself,” Seungcheol mutters, quietly. “She was selfish, though. I don't blame her for what she did, but - man. What freaks me out about you, Jeonghan, is that you're - odd. Like she was.”

“I do it everyday,” Jeonghan says, brightly. He smiles and his mouth forms a neat loveheart. “Everyday. I don't want to lose my mind, but if I don't laugh about it, I'm scared everyone will think it's already gone. My mom said I was 'away with the fairies’, but that's not true. I'm not. I just don't like the world, to be honest.”

“And?” Jisoo asks. 

“I can't put up with it, honestly,” Jeonghan explains. “I try and I try, but it equals nothing. I tried to set myself on fire, tried to drown myself, strangle myself, everything. What you don't understand is that what I lack in the 'will to live’ department, I make up for in the dedication department.”

Jeonghan's eloquence startles Seungcheol. It would be easier if he started talking gobbledygook again and pulling screwed-up faces, since that was easier to swallow. This is a bitter pill and a half. 

“I killed somebody,” Jisoo repeats. Jeonghan is visibly startled, but he continues nonetheless. “He tried to rape me, so I killed him.”

“Oh,” Seungcheol swallows. “I've been stealing since I was a toddler.” Jisoo feeds Seungcheol a small bite of waffle and he chews for a few seconds before speaking once more. “It was my fault. I can't stop stealing, but - it was cars. My mom bought me car magazines as a kid, so I got excited about it all. The big, expensive ones.”

“There's not much point in stealing a shitty car,” Jisoo agrees.

“But, the thing is, I would. I steal because I like stealing - when I was a teenager, we had no money. By that time, I'd only stolen for pleasure. When we really needed food, I'd always get caught. When it was a keyring or an eraser, I'd get away with it. I felt like shit about it for a long time, but there's nothing I can do anymore.” He stares the empty plate in front of him. “I got messed up in some bad shit. Got beat up a few times - I still do, quite regularly. Sometimes I like the pain, 'cos it keeps me on my toes.”

“We all - no, you guys - fucked up,” Jeonghan states. “I'm fucked up. My mom dropped me on my head too many times, I think. I'm dumb.”

“You're - you.” Jisoo glances at Jeonghan and smiles. “You're confusing and frustrating, but I like you.”

“I like you, too,” Seungcheol comforts. “I hope you know that.”

Jeonghan winces. “My old friends - they, um - nah, it hardly matters. Those pancakes were fucking great.”

There's a brief pause until Seungcheol says, “I'd die for you.”

“You barely know me,” Jisoo says.

“I know, but I would. I can't explain it. You too, Jeonghannie. I would take a bullet.”

-

Jeonghan gets really, properly high for the first time.

It's surprising. A cocktail of different cheap paracetamols don't have the same buzz as cocaine, stinging slightly in the space between the bottom of his nose and his Cupid's bow, but it feels good. Seungcheol cut it for him, too. The credit card he stole from the girl in the club booth with them slides fluidly across the table, a few centimetres away from Jisoo's cocktail, and even though it was daunting at first, saying what the fuck and doing something is often better than what the fuck and not doing it, so he takes the plunge and shoves his sore nose against the table. 

Seungcheol rubs the back of his head encouragingly as he does - a pleasant, gentle touch. He'd expected the elder to be a bit more hands-on, more hard than soft. He touches Jeonghan like he's made of glass. 

Jisoo follows suit, but he knows the routine. Experimentation in college leads to experience, exposure, wisdom - but he does it anyway, too. The girl laughs. Her teeth are pearly white and even though half of Seungcheol's attention has been on softly encouraging the two boys by his side, the other half has been on her chest. Unintentionally, she probably thinks he's a massive creep. Whatever. He can live with that, since she says nothing and neither does Jisoo or Jeonghan. They laugh for a bit, despite the fact it's not really anything funny, just a drug-fuelled haze making everything twenty times more exciting, and she joins in, too. 

He wants to keep her credit card, though. She's drunk and doesn't ask for it back, and Jisoo silently watches him slide it into his pocket. Poor girl, he thinks. Still, he can't do anything, can he?

“It's good,” Jeonghan mutters, rubbing his nostril and assessing the drugs like they're a slice of cake. Quietly, Jisoo scooches over to Jeonghan's side and presses the rim of the cocktail glass against his lips, saying taste this along with a plethora of unheard compliments. 

Seungcheol's lucky, really. He doesn't feel inclined to steal from them, which is progress, and maybe - just maybe - they're made for each other. He's got an eye for these things. If this is a thing, that is. You don't ignore a suicidal ballerina on the sidewalk and you don't desert a shell-shocked looking young man on the curb, either. He feels like he's been through so much with them - it's only been less than a day, really - and yet there's so close. That must mean something, right?

Holding his breath, he snorts one more line and drags Jisoo by the wrist onto the dancefloor. Jeonghan doesn't feel left out, though. With his arm around the girl - Jihyo, maybe? - he watches the two of them excitedly, laughing his head off for no given reason. They look so good together, Seungcheol grinding against Jisoo as they both brush bodies to the beat. Jisoo is wearing a whole new outfit, but Seungcheol stuck with what he wore the day before - money changes people, but not them. Seungcheol would love Jisoo out of designer clothes - he'd love him naked, even. 

“Yes!” Jeonghan cheers. The girl joins in too, just quieter. He kisses her cheek and brushes his fingers through her hair. 

When they kiss, Jeonghan trembles. The coke in his system burns out, and he's running on sheer adrenaline - he wants to kiss, to love, to experience. He's lived a sheltered life, although self-inflicted, but for the first time, the world is truly his oyster. He can do what he likes, right? That's okay, right? 

“Jisoo, Seungcheol-hyung,” Jeonghan calls. “Hi!”

He smiles to himself, brings a cigarette to his lips and offers the girl a drag. 

“You know,” she whispers. “I get it.”

“What?” Jeonghan inquires. 

“You,” she answers. “You can't choose, right? But...You shouldn't have to. Choose, I mean.”

“It's easy, though,” Jeonghan says. “Jisoo, obviously -”

“Huh,” she says. Her smile grows wider. Purple Line thrums through the club, through Jeonghan's bones. “I like this song. Dance with me, then?”

Jeonghan is obliging, takes her hand, dances. It's the first time he's danced without it being on the way to an almost-death. As nice as she is, he gently slips his way through the crowd to lock eyes with Jisoo, alone. Seungcheol is at the bar, ordering more drinks for the three of them. Silently, Jeonghan snakes his arm around Jisoo, holding him close. Jeonghan is a little taller, but it means nothing. 

The world slows around them. It's like a movie, as dumb as it sounds, but it is. It's like nothing else. 

“I love you,” Jeonghan mutters into the shell of Jisoo’s ear. “So much.”

He clutches onto Jeonghan's shirt. 

“Hotel,” he laughs. “I'm gonna -”

“Drinks!” Seungcheol shouts. “Oh - let's -”

“No, drinks,” Jeonghan agrees. 

Drinks, and then what? The drugs in his system burn under his skin, in his blood, just beneath. He feels pliant and energised at the same time. This is like nothing he's ever done before and, even though it's scary and unfamiliar - 

He likes it. 

The next day, they drive again. It's actually only a few hours after they leave the club, but Seungcheol describes it is “non-negotiable” and so they drive. Driving is tiring, really. Kisses fade into Jeonghan falling asleep on Jisoo's shoulder and sure, this is okay. 

Settling at a warehouse is kind of weird. It's not a hotel, not a proper place of residence - it's good enough, though. They have money but they're so, so tired that it's reasonable to just sleep. Sex seems a bit pointless and Jeonghan doesn't really care about how much his back hurts from sleeping on a shitty bed. It's not a five star room, of course, but he falls asleep between the two of them easily.

-

Seungcheol feels hurt.

And it's not because he's in love with Jisoo, because he's not. He's hurt because what was once “us three” begins to feel like “us two”. 

When Jisoo kisses Jeonghan's cheek, he sits between the two of them in the hope that maybe they won't abandon him, right? They can't fall in love. If they do, it won't be fair on Seungcheol - he can't stand the loneliness that comes with being the third wheel; the designated driver, the extra, the unnecessary one. He swallows his pride and decides that this won't work if Jeonghan and Jisoo fall in love.

But they can't help it. It's not their fault, their problem, their issue. 

Jisoo doesn't know love. Doesn't know right from wrong, wrong from right - it's one of those nights in which the lines blur and everything's in the middle. Fluorescent love hotel lights pool against their skin as Jisoo falls to pieces beneath Jeonghan's touch, thumbing the small of his bottom lip gently and destroying his sensibilities entirely. It shouldn't be like this, Seungcheol thinks. 

It is. “I love you,” Jeonghan says, and this time he means it. Jisoo's ghostly smoke that he breathes out over his collarbones is so, so intoxicating. They're high and in love and it's all too much. “I love you,” Jisoo repeats. Tobacco fills the bathroom, porcelain pressing against their cold bodies like a prophetic grave. Somehow, it feels futuristic. 

The lights paint Jisoo shades of indigo and navy, cyan and violet - his body contorts pleasantly, molding into Jeonghan completely, and they fall apart so suddenly that both are left in stunned silence. 

Spent, Jisoo falls on top of the elder weakly. They say I love you until the meaning transcends language, words, the earthly plane entirely. He swallows Jisoo entirely, holds onto his hands, breathes in his earthy scent. “I know,” Jisoo says. He knows everything - to him, Jeonghan is transparent. “Soon, I'll know everything. We'll be -”

The moment is ruined when Seungcheol shoves the door open, exposing their bodies to the blazing heat of the main hotel room that has the heating turned up way too high, and unbuttons his jeans. They're naked and he's pissing. Great. Nobody says anything. 

“I hope you're happy,” Seungcheol says.

“We are.”

-

After that, they drive again. 

Even though Jisoo insists he can take the wheel if it gets too much for Seungcheol, it's always the oldest who ends up in the driver’s seat. Usually, Jisoo rides shotgun. Seungcheol hates it - he can't stop looking. Jeonghan drapes his arms over both of their seats, staring vacantly out of the window at the world just ahead of them, seatbelt left undone, and, contrary to what he's like outside of the car, stays rather quiet. They all do. Sometimes, it's easier that way. 

Today's different, though. 

Seungcheol's grown antsy, Jisoo can tell - maybe it's the overconsumption, the partying, the stealing, but he can't settle. For better or for worse, now they can't settle together. The warehouse wasn't exactly nice, but, for a time, it felt like home. Despite the countless times Seungcheol woke up in the morning to find himself sharing a body with two sleeping people, as naked as they day they were born, when he was in his thermals. It’s winter, after all, but Jeonghan was always good at pretending he was unbothered by the cold. The place had no heating, but the nights they spent intermittently in love hotels - when Seungcheol couldn't bare to drive back, too stoned or buzzed or drunk - it seemed that Seungcheol would turn the knobs up to the highest setting. A personal vendetta against the warehouse, maybe, but it's not like the building had eyes and could learn to improve itself by growing a boiler just from the hot temperatures he basked in.

They stopped staying at the hotels. Seungcheol got jealous, so they stayed cold. Even if he had to drive drunk, he'd do it. 

He likes the idea of being listless - he's been on the run before, too many times, and constantly checking into hotels under fake names is kind of suspicious. That warehouse was their lucky break, but he knows he has to leave it. As Jisoo noticed, he got nervous.

Anxiety, he thinks, is a real killer. 

“I think the sky at this time is really beautiful,” Jisoo comments. It is - a butterscotch sunset, spilling like oil across the horizon, drawn tightly against the cyan sky. “I used to climb onto my roof and look at it - especially if I'd just had an argument with my parents, which happened quite often.”

Seungcheol wouldn't pin Jisoo as the confrontational type. “Your parents,” he ventures, tone gentle. “You didn't get on with them, right? Was there, um, a reason why?”

“I'm - I'm not exactly the smartest,” he laughs, as though trying to make it seem like he's fully at ease with such a statement. “You guys make me feel smart, though. Which isn't to say that I feel I'm intellectually superior, because I'm not. Jeonghan-hyung is so smart.”

“I - I was lonely for a long time,” Seungcheol admits, “and I still kind of am, inside. You two -”

Jisoo shushes him. “On occasion, it's nice to be two. But hyung, we can be three. Really, we want it as much as you do, we just can't -”

“Express it,” Jeonghan finishes. He pops his gum loudly. “Where are we going?”

“Finally, I figured it all out,” Seungcheol chuckles. “This old woman is renting out an apartment just off the coast in Busan - a small, not-so-busy part of town. It's relatively cheap, and we have the money...I couldn't stand the warehouse/hotel, really.”

“I still want to share the bed,” Jisoo says, blankly. He shoves his feet up onto the dashboard and allows Jeonghan to press a cigarette into his outstretched palm. “If that's okay.”

“It’s more than okay,” Seungcheol says. 

“I get bored easily, y’know,” he whispers. The cigarette fills the car with smoke and Seungcheol breathes Jisoo's scent in deeply. “My life was so boring. Maybe I'll kill more people.”

“We'll help,” Jeonghan laughs.

They spend the rest of the journey laughing at the absurdity of it all, sharing drags of each other's cigarettes and a bottle of beer between the three of them. 

-

The apartment is fairly spacious, lacking inessential furniture, and for a good half an hour, they traipse their aching bones around the interior to get a feel for the place. 

Yet again, all is silent. Seungcheol can hear Jeonghan's wheezing breaths, watches him as he nonchalantly slides around on the floorboards with his socked feet. He looks beautiful, like the little ballerina in a music box, and creates his own music with a cacophony of sniffles, squeaks and hums. He wears a flowing shirt that envelops his upper half, tight denim jeans over his legs - ripped, of course, and exposing his bruised knees. Every bit of him is bruised, but the injuries Seungcheol inflicted upon him have faded substantially. That feels good, but they hurt each other mutually now - all three, pinching each other and slapping each other, gently but with purpose. It's what Seungcheol has always wanted, though - someone he loves to hit him. Hard. 

Jisoo watches, cold bottle of beer clutched in his hand. “Jeonghan, you're beautiful,” Seungcheol assures.

He leans down to where the other two are sat, Jisoo mid-swallow, and giggles as he falls into Seungcheol's arms. Pushed to the floor, it's the first time he's ever kissed Jeonghan. The younger is straddled upon his chest, sat rather forcefully on top of him, but the wind that got knocked out of his chest as his back slammed onto the floorboards is reaffirmed in his body once more with Jeonghan's kiss of life. Funny thing is, the way he kisses is unexpectedly strong - that peppermint flavour has remained since the very first day they met, and he can taste it fully as he allows himself entry into Jeonghan's mouth. 

“Hey,” Jisoo says, softly. “We're -”

Jeonghan sits up on Seungcheol's chest. “No, not tonight,” he laughs. “I just wanted hyung to know.”

“To know what?” Seungcheol asks.

“To know that he's wanted.”

Jisoo offers Jeonghan a beer, and he takes it gratefully. There's not much left to do. The old TV set doesn't show any shows in colour, but black-and-white is better than nothing. Sat on a beat-up sofa, Jeonghan’s eyes begin to fall shut as they glare at some antique TV show about teapots.

Speaking of teapots, Jeonghan still feels empty - filling the void is still impossible, but for the time being, he's numb to it. Drunk, he's numb to it all except desire. He's tired, though. Exhausted. By the time Jisoo pulls out the whiskey from the trunk of the car, Jeonghan has already fallen asleep into the crook of Seungcheol's arm.

Respectfully, Jisoo whispers quietly, “This place is great.”

Seungcheol winces as he takes a mouthful from the brown glass bottle that Jisoo just retrieved. Then, he furrows his brow. “It's shit.”

“I know,” Jisoo says. “But you and Jeonghan make it great.”

“I agree,” Seungcheol laughs, tone simmering and less harsh than it had been previously. “Jisoo.”

The kiss is short-lived, but passionate. Jisoo's lips are soft and plush, addictive - he can't blame Jeonghan for constantly kissing them, either. From the bow to the bottom, the kiss makes up for its duration with its sheer fluidity. He isn't harsh or forceful. When Jeonghan sniffles, they stop - but it was something. Both kisses are _something_ , right?

-

Seungcheol doesn’t know how it happens - in a flurry of red and blue alarms blazing, there’s little room for questions. Jeonghan looks almost worried, but it fades quickly - all the anxiety within Jisoo is burnt out, useless. He’s got no qualms with screaming his lungs out with Jeonghan and Seungcheol, shouting like there’s no tomorrow. Maybe, in actuality, there’s no tomorrow to speak of. 

They might be onto something, but it’s not exactly a conscious realisation - as Jeonghan outstretches his arms, as though presenting his body in its slender entirety for the police to see while he stands up in the backseat, he screams, “Shoot me, then!”

No bullets fly, and the cars won’t stop wailing. Tires screech against concrete as they turn from corner to corner, zig-zagging rapidly through the city in the serendipitous nighttime breeze, and even though their lungs burn and it’s all too much, they can’t stop laughing. It’s a conclusive ending - not that they even realise it’s an ending, and maybe - just maybe - it isn’t. Slipping down side-streets, narrowly avoiding ambling drunks, sticking their arms out of the windows melodramatically. Even an American movie couldn’t compare.

It’s been a good run, Seungcheol admits. He can still taste months of half-empty kisses on his lips, can smell Jeonghan’s peppermint scent and feel the wetness of the blood on Jisoo’s hands as he envelops one in a tight squeeze. Accumulating within his heart, the money was something - even if he was greedy with it, spending too much on luxuries over practicalities, he doesn’t care. If this was nothing, he wouldn’t be driving the car like his life depended on it. His hands clutch the steering wheel nervously, his palms sweat - nonetheless, he wouldn’t change a single thing. This was always too good to be true, but it is true - Jeonghan and Jisoo are as real as the air in his lungs, the ground beneath his feet, the clouds in the sky. Nothing about this is false. This was predestined, right? Bound together by fate, Seungcheol knew he was being wholly truthful when he said he’d die for the two of them.

He knows the contortions of their svelte figures, the subtle bruises cascading like purple waterfalls across pallid skin, and knows how the harder he squeezes, the better Jisoo will feel. If he’s scared, there’s no shame in that. The police are catching up and, even though he wants to act confident, even Seungcheol can see there are some tight places that he can’t slip out of. His legs feel like they’re turning to jelly - attempting to regain focus and clarity of mind, he switches lanes once more into the outside and drives fast. The accelerator trembles beneath his overaggressive step. 

He holds his breath, reminisces - months bleed into a minute-long highlight reel of memories; it doesn’t feel fair, though. He wants to treasure every glimpse of Jeonghan or Jisoo he’s ever had. He wants to hold them to his chest. Not to be overly emotional, but his heart skips a beat and hurts to think that there would ever be a future without them. He thinks of it all, but it’s an incomplete image - not only has he forgotten chunks that he desperately tries to wipe the hazy fog of drugs off of, but there’s an ending on the tip of his tongue. Jisoo smiles, Jeonghan laughs, Seungcheol twists the wheel sharply - he remembers sweetness, overconsumption, them. Even in death, they’re a three.

Running his hands along the gushes of cold air, Jisoo breathes in a shaky breath and keeps his mind on Jeonghan and Seungcheol. If he thinks about anything else, he might die. A turtleneck he pulled up to his nose shrouds words from escaping, unwanted and unnecessary. If he speaks, he might express regret - but it’s not real. He doesn’t feel guilt. He doesn’t feel anything, really, but sheer, unadulterated love. 

_Jeonghan falls back, snorts, and the water breaks beneath his force - the bathtub could crack in two with such intensity, but it’s rather standard for Jeonghan. He holds his hand out like he’s a zombie bursting out from his coffin, through the dirt, and gargles a mouth of water as his head submerges. His body and clothes are soaked; the water is cold, too. When Jisoo pulls him out of the bathtub, it sends chills down his spine - if Jeonghan was to die, where would that leave him?_

_“Jeonghan-hyung,” he mutters, towelling the elder’s hair softly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”_

_“I’d ask you to join me, Jisoo. Heaven would be lonely without you and hyung.”_

_Jisoo sniffles. “You think we’re going to Heaven? That’s awfully optimistic.”_

Then, Seungcheol. His voice was once a comfort - now, it reminds Jisoo of the fact that, if he's unlucky, he'll never see him again. A day without him seems impossible, really. He thinks of whole afternoons spent smoking pot and downing shot after shot of expensive whiskey that he had stolen previously. Even with money, Seungcheol stole. He stole and he steals - until it caught up with him, that is. 

_It's nearly evening, nearing five o’clock. It's not like any of them are working - Jisoo figures the travelling hairdresser idea can wait for now - but he feels obliged to wait at the dining table until Seungcheol returns. Jeonghan is slouched over the sofa in a black t-shirt, wine glass in hand, as he watched some reality TV show about over-dramatic teenagers with their overactive hormones._

_Perhaps he's still mad at them, Jisoo supposes, after last night._

_It all seems like such a blur - one minute they were smoking, the next they were clambering over each other. He thinks of Jeonghan's mouth, how it felt, how his body twisted to Jisoo's comfort and now is closed off, cold. Jeonghan was always the guilty sort - if they switched places, would Jisoo be able to understand that overwhelming desire Jeonghan hides? Beneath all the elaborate lies, even Jisoo knows it was more than just dancing in the road. His ballerina isn't delicate at all - his skin is littered with unwanted scars, marked with unresolved pain._

_Jisoo is aware, of course. He caught Seungcheol's eye when Jeonghan was pressed against him, and realises it's too late to reach out. He loves him - he really does - but now it's too far gone, too poisonous. A choke settles in his throat and he settles for a mournful whine._

“I don't want to be with anyone but you two,” Jeonghan confesses, his hands draped over their seats. His excitement has died down, but he's still smiling. Perhaps Jeonghan had always known, a secret he kept hidden for too long, but in a way, Jeonghan was always a little prophetic. 

And it makes sense, in an odd way. Before, he couldn't live a life without them - now, he'd rather die than lose them. Death grabs Jeonghan by the collar and beckons him like a lost puppy, but for a while, he felt shrouded from those thoughts. Seungcheol parks the car quickly, the shock of the engine dying shaking them a little, and Jeonghan is the first to understand that they need to run. Their legs won't take them faster than a car, but they have an advantage - no matter if the police catch them, they all know how it ends. Jisoo is almost frightened; Seungcheol learns to smile as Jeonghan does. It's true, of course, that Jeonghan has always expected his day to come - he was a miserable freak, and now he's a happy one. 

He'll die for what he loves.

Seungcheol knows the police will raid the car first, so he follows the two others as they chase each other desperately up the spiralling staircase of an abandoned apartment block. Coral reefs of graffiti grow across the brickwork and the cheap metal door frames, the building truly rotted from the inside out. 

When they find themselves at the top, they laugh.

“I knew,” Jeonghan chuckles. “I knew it!”

Jisoo's eyes crinkle. “It's been so much fun, right?”

“So much fun,” Seungcheol confirms, a little serious. For a second, Jeonghan is a little worried. “Just kidding. I love you both, y'know?”

“I know,” Jisoo says. He clutches onto both of their hands, standing in the middle like a quiet catalyst. “We -”

“We should,” Jeonghan whispers. They glance over the city skyline. “I loved every second.”

“I loved every inch of your body.”

“I loved you with all my heart, my soul, my everything -”

Jeonghan tugs them forwards, all three tumbling in fits of giggles. It's a suitable end, they agree, to a suitably good time. Everything must cease, right? All good things end badly, right? Nearing the edge, Jeonghan is sure that this will be the first and last time for everything he's ever wanted from life.

It’ll be the first time he dies successfully, and, inversely, the last time he'll ever see the only two people he's ever loved. He shoves one foot on the ledge, just to see if it suits him, and they all follow. It's a domino effect. With a shaking breath, they, conjoined in life and predestined in death, fly.

-

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter - [@lovelike0xygen](https://mobile.twitter.com/lovelike0xygen)
> 
> ✨ I have a really bad habit of deleting things if they flop lmaooo :/ ✨


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